by Joe Poyer
"At dawn, we will have succeeded. They cannot withstand our assaults much longer."
"So why wait here?" I asked. It seemed odd that just as the troopers were beginning to develop momentum they had come to a stop.
"Major Ky fears that any Burmese remaining in the main compound will be used as shields. He prefers to wait for dawn. I am inclined to agree. Patrols have been sent to stop anyone trying to cross the fences to the forest."
I nodded. It sounded plausible even though I doubted that the patrols would be effective; but then I knew Klaus better than he did. Any chance that he was given to retrench, he would use to good advantage. I settled my back against a tree and let exhaustion catch up with me.
A flurry of mortar rounds smashed along the line of trees and a high-pitched scream of agony sent everyone diving for the ground. I clawed my way around the base of the tree and curled up as much as possible; terrified. The concussions tore at my face, pounded my eardrums. Dirt and stones kicked up by the blast whipped across my shoulders and back and I crouched, dreading to hear the solid whump of a round as it bounced high to explode in an airburst to riddle me with steel pellets.
The bombardment died away as suddenly as it had begun. The soft coughing of the heavier Burmese mortar launchers began and explosions blossomed in the center of the compound. Within moments, it had become a duel between opposing mortar teams. Then a tremendous blast shook the ground and split the air as the defending mortar emplacement blew up. Almost as if on cue, the rain began again, a heavy deluge blotting out completely what little could be seen in the darkness.
I had just gotten to my feet to search out Ley when a
brilliant light flared and a tremendous blast of heated air knocked me to the ground again. A spear of pure flame roared into the night sky like a giant blowtorch; the high-pitched hiss clearly audible. A stray round from the mortars must have struck one of the oil storage tanks. Burning debris began to shower around us; flaming oil and pieces of twisted metal from the tank. Above the line of trees and buildings, flames raved insanely.
For a moment I was stunned by the sheer fury of the explosion. Then, I ran for the far side of the compound as fast as I could in the oil-streaked gloom. Branches whipped and snatched at the carbine as I raced through the undergrowth toward the fence skirting the compound. A thunderous explosion in the northwest end of the compound shook the ground again as a second storage tank erupted. Distant figures running toward the first tank with firehoses were knocked to the ground by the blast.
I broke out of the trees and turned to parallel the fence, maintaining a screen of vegetation between me and the side road. If Klaus was going to break for it anywhere, I reasoned, this was the most likely way he would come. North of the compound lay the bluff that I had climbed the previous afternoon. At the end of its long back slope heavy forest stretched away almost unbroken to the border forty miles north. Once he gained the trees he would stand a good chance of reaching the Chinese border where he could claim political asylum.
I reached the midpoint of the compound fence without interference. Ahead, the first of the tanks were still several hundred yards away, but the roar of burning oil was almost a scream; even at this distance the heat was intense. I stopped and crouched behind a large valve for shelter. A third oil tank, located closer to the fence, but only two hundred feet from the first was also in danger of exploding in the hellish heat. I could see blisters of paint rising from its sides. To my left, a web of piping and valving ran from tank to tank, some mounted on racks, some merely laid along the muddy ground. As I watched, one of the pipelines feeding the burning tank ruptured and spewed a jet of flame into the sky. I ducked out from behind the valve and ran as fast as I could back along the fence, away from that hell in the making. By the time I had reached the trees again, the area I had just vacated was flaring into dancing flames as the oil seeped from more broken lines.
I pushed deeper into the trees to a point, where I could watch the now narrowed escape way, and raised the carbine to check the clip in the light of flaring oil. A stunning blow knocked me sprawling into the mud. I twisted, bringing the carbine up just in time to ward off a killing second blow. The rifle butt glanced off the carbine to smash across my shoulder. Heavy feet raced toward the fence and flares of pain exploded like the oil-fed flames through my head. My right arm and shoulder were paralyzed where the blow had fallen and something warm and sticky was flowing down my forehead into my eyes and nose. I managed to raise my head far enough to see a figure with a heavy knapsack and a rifle drop from the top of the fence to the other side and race into the trees and disappear.
When I regained consciousness, it had stopped raining and the sky was beginning to lighten in the east. All three oil tanks were burning, their flaring light wavering among the thick clouds of acrid smoke settling over the compound.
"Are you all right?" a hoarse voice that I barely recognized as Mikhail's demanded.
"What happened ... ?"
Mikhail ignored the question and straightened my arm. I screamed as the movement sent fierce waves of needling pain coursing through my head and down my spine.
"Do you know who it was?" he asked as he worked to tie up the cut in my forehead with a dirty handkerchief.
"Klaus," I managed to gasp out. "He was . . . waiting to go over the ... the fence . '
Mikhail nodded and got to his feet. He picked up his carbine and glanced at the fence almost hidden now by the foul smoke. "Your friends will find you. You are not badly hurt except for the blow to the head and some blood lost. I am going after Klaus."
Without another word, he was gone, running toward the fence and I passed out again.
It was raining again, a fine drizzle tasting of oil. I lay sprawled in the mud remembering where I was and what had happened. The gunfire had stopped and I could hear shouting voices somewhere along the fence. I found that
I could move my head without the deadly pain that had earlier threatened to tear me apart. My right arm was useless, incapable of movement. I got slowly to my knees and vomited, then rested there until the world stopped spinning.
Both Klaus and Mikhail had gone over that fence. Klaus had anywhere from a five to thirty minute lead .. .
I had no idea how long I had been unconscious before Mikhail found me. Mikhail had at least that much over me . .. no matter how long now it was bound to get longer since I had all I could do to climb to my feet. The smoke was as dense as heavy fog. The rain served only to further reduce visibility to the barest minimum. I considered searching for Ley, but discarded the thought immediately. He had found the end of his pipeline. His part in this affair was over as far as I was concerned. Whatever was left was between Klaus, Mikhail and myself, and I meant to see that it stayed that way.
The fence was less than a hundred feet away, yet it seemed a hundred miles. My right arm and shoulder were beginning to ache, and when I dabbed at my forehead my hand came away covered with blood. I can remember throwing away the empty carbine and climbing the tall fence, but nothing else until I stood on the ground on the other side. The pain was so intense that it wiped all else from my mind. Voices approaching along the fence warned me and I hobbled into the trees before I was spotted. A patrol of Burmese troopers passed and disappeared into the dense smoke and rain leaving me in sudden silence. I sank down onto the mossy, pine needle-covered ground and rested for a long time, semiconscious at best. The dawn had come in earnest by the time I moved on. The pain in my head had died away to a pulsating ache that marched in counterpoint to the steady white pain coursing through my neck, chest and arm. I pushed slowly through the trees, not attempting to do more than keep one foot moving in front of the other. I knew that Klaus must first climb the bluff before he could start the long trek north. There would be plenty of open ground where I might pick up his and Mikhail's tracks later.
The first leg of the trek, the climb up the ridge, was accomplished in a haze of pain. I cannot now recall even the slightest detail. I was moving by
sheer reflex alone, not sure if it was hatred driving me on, the need to prove something to myself or sheer stubbornness. I remember nothing from the time I pushed into the trees to when I topped the ridge and stumbled down the familiar slope to the tiny stream and sprawled full length in the cool water, aware for the first time of how horribly thirsty I was.
The rushing coolness revived me somewhat easing the numbing pain in my shoulder.
After a while I found enough strength to climb out of the stream and onto the grassy bank where I could stretch out and let the morning sun dry me. Toward midmorning I located a faint trail that continued on into the forest on the other side. A second set of footprints paced up and down the bank, then having located the first set, had crossed the stream into the trees with long, broad strides as if running. I followed and the trail led deeper and deeper into the trees while the sun rode higher, crossed the zenith and hurried toward late afternoon. Time held no significance for me now, and occasionally I awakened with a jolt to find myself standing beside the trail, motionless. Mikhail's heavy footprints were easy enough to spot on the humus-thick ground by their deep toe indentations and clearly defined sole marks. Mikhail was a trained walker, Klaus was not.
By noon, the sun had cleared a path through the clouds, and from below the occasional break in the forest canopy, I could see large blue patches of sky laced with fluffy white clouds. As the sky cleared off, the heat increased; the heat and humidity, wrapping me in a fog of dizziness and sweat.
In midafternoon, I found another small stream, swollen now with the heavy monsoon rains, and washed my head and shoulder thoroughly. I tore a strip off my shirt and made a makeshift bandage and thrust my useless right arm into my shirt front and went on. The trail was easy enough to follow; broken branches and scraped bark adding to the heavy footprints in the soft earth. A blind man could have followed that trail. But it aged as the day drew on, the footprints filling with water and crumbling in on themselves as both Mikhail and Klaus gained ground on me. It no longer mattered; as long as I caught them at last, I did not care what else happened.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Dusk had filtered through the great trees of the forest before I regained my senses. For the first time I was completely aware that I had blindly trailed after two killers with no more means of defense than a single revolver, no food of any kind and only half conscious with pain.
I stopped above a small stream dropping down a series of broad tables to a deep pool directly below. The falling water had carved out a sheltered hollow in the rock from which tall firs reached toward the sun. Half dead with fatigue, I clambered down the rocks to the warm grass and the pool. The water was cool and the air warm, and I took advantage of the lingering sunlight to strip off my muddy clothes and ease myself down into the pool. Immediately, the sharp bite of the water deadened the pain in my shoulder, and then as I grew used to the temperature the slow current eased the other tensions throughout my body. I closed my eyes and leaned back against the bank and fell asleep at once.
It was nearly dark by the time the chill woke and forced me to dress in the sweaty clothes. The air had turned cold. At five thousand feet altitude, the coming night was going to get even colder. It took me far longer than it should have to drag up sufficient fire wood to last a few hours, and then the damp wood refused to burn and I spent another frustrating hour carving with one hand a small teepee of wood shavings to ignite and set the wood burning.
A flat-faced stone jutting from the ground five feet in front of the sheer overhang of the rock wall provided a sheltered campsite. I built the fire against the flat rook', and within minutes its heat was reflecting from both sides of the rock wall. I stumbled about in the dark and managed to drag back several more good-sized branches to make the fire last as long as possible.
It occurred to me that I had eaten nothing in nearly twenty-four hours. A hopeless search of my clothing turned up the remains of a half-eaten, lint-covered candy bar jammed into my pocket sometime during the flight from Italy. I had honestly forgotten when I had eaten the
other half, but contemplating the stale candy bar, things did not seem quite so hopeless after all.
I stretched out on the grass beside the fire. Contrary to all of the outdoor stories that I had ever read, an open fire, no matter how well banked and reflected will not keep both sides of you warm at once. I lay a long time shivering first on one side and roasting on the other, but after a while, sheer exhaustion forced me into a fitful doze. I slept badly that night for obvious reasons and awoke long before dawn, half frozen, starved and definitely feverish. I ached horribly in every bone and joint.
The chase lasted three days; three days of sweltering heat and frozen nights punctuated with periods of delirium when I moved mechanically, stumbling over and around obstacles until sanity returned. I picked what food I could find along the way, fruits and edible roots that I had learned to identify in Vietnam. I also shot a small animal, a type of rodent that I had never seen before. I fired the pistol before it occurred to me that Klaus or Mikhail might hear the shot. That was at the end of the second day and I was half dead with exertion and hunger. The animal was small, smaller than a rabbit but it was one of the few animals that I saw and the only one that gave me a clear shot. I roasted and ate what little meat there was on the damned thing that evening, forcing myself to save a small portion for the next day. My right arm had begun to loosen a little, even though every movement remained hellishly painful. That afternoon I took off my jacket and shirt and let the sun burn down on the huge purple welt that had spread along the top of the shoulder and upper arm as I walked on.
It rained briefly in the afternoon of the second day; a shower that soaked me thoroughly but did not wash away the tracks. All during the afternoon an excitement, that not even the rain dampened, had been growing in me. I was convinced that the tracks were becoming fresher. The dense forest of the intermediate highlands had been left behind and the gradient of the plateau was steepening as we climbed closer and closer to the northern flank of the Shan Mountains separating China from Burma. I judged that I had covered some thirty miles by the end of the second day, and I was sure that Klaus and Mikhail were no more than a few hours ahead of me. How, I'll never know, but apparently I had gained on them. The rain in the afternoon was a parting shot from the monsoon that I could see still ranging the lower plateau to the south. The annual rainfall as reflected by the vegetation, was sparser at this higher elevation. The firs were taller and more widely spaced and the underbush was thick but not as prolific as the fleshy, damp growth of the lower plateau. The grasses on the open savannahs were growing again in the wake of the winter rains, waving gently in vistas of emerald-green across the occasional wide expanses of plateau that lay open to the blue skies piled with towering thunderheads.
Ahead, the plateau came to an abrupt end. The terrain rose steeply to a line of ridges and strode forward several miles to the high peaks. At the base of those peaks lay the Burma-China border and safety for Klaus. Hours deep into that second night, my legs gave out and I slept where I fell; slept deeply, the bitter cold of the high night air unfelt until before dawn and I was awake and on the way again, trudging endlessly into my peculiar fever world.
Klaus had avoided the tiny villages scattered widely through these frontier lands on the Burmese border as almost all had their own tiny police garrison. Occasionally a military aircraft flew endless search patterns along the mountain routes, and I knew that they were only watching the border area and not yet searching for us. I had wondered briefly what Ley had done when he discovered that the three of us were missing; and then dismissed the thought. It made no difference to me . . . he had what he wanted.
The trail was entirely gone now, lost in the deep grass and flinty soil, but it made no difference; there was only one way to go and that was due north. The border snaked south in a deep U, poking into Burma until it was less than sixty miles from Lashio. The oil camp *as twenty miles north and east of Lashio, leaving Kl
aus with only forty miles to run to safety. Rather than trailing the two of them any longer, I was now moving diagonally across their line of march to reach the border highlands first. There was only one way into China within fifty miles —a pass at nine thousand feet guarded by a border station. There was no other way he could go.
An intense blue sky accentuated the ominous dark
clouds that had drawn up in military order along the southern horizon. An occasional flicker of lightning stabbed the land as if to mark off miles traveled. The northern slope of the ridge slipped away and down some distance to a shallow valley on the far side of which stood a tiny stone hut marking the border between Burma and China. South, the slope dropped much more precipitously to a steep-sided canyon filled with dense stands of fir. A thin watercourse made its hesitant way along the bottom of the valley, occasionally bold enough to claim odd acres for coveted marshes.
From where I sat with my back resting against the bole of a wind-twisted tree on the summit, I could see the toiling figure with the knapsack trudging toward me. Klaus walked rapidly, but with the jerky movements of a man close to exhaustion.
An occasional small meadow skirted a tiny marsh, almost hidden in the black firs that marched up the nearly vertical east and west walls of the canyon. The aspect of the countryside was similar to that of the High Sierras or the Colorado Rockies. Even the trees and the vegetation were similar. Klaus stepped out into the first meadow. I could see him plainly now as he stopped and looked around. He was a tiny stick figure still a mile or more away, but when he peered up the canyon at the ridge I started as if he were staring directly at me. Finally, he shrugged out of his pack and dropped down on the grass in a way that left no doubt as to his weariness.
It occurred to me that I had reached the point where I could wait calmly knowing that within the next few hours I would kill a man I had once considered a friend. But for some reason, I did not feel the same horror at knowing that Mikhail would probably go on living, even though he had killed Vishailly in cold blood. I did not know Vishailly well or the policeman Bowen at all, but I did know Peter Schenk. Did I have to be intimately involved with a person who had been murdered before the repugnance of that death did more than touch me; before it dragged me into involvement? Apparently, because here I was, on the farthest border reaches of Northern Burma, preparing to kill a man who had once been my friend because he had ordered the death of another friend. An "eye for an eye" says the Christian Bible, and though I am not a Christian, the aptness of this directive from the Almighty, however much discredited by the New Testament, served as my justification. I had lost sight of the more universal teaching .. . "do unto others as you would have them do unto you" . . . on the march north.
